


you're going to be okay (you don't have a choice)

by abaze



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Flashbacks, Gen, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, just kidding theres not much comfort, lots of bad stuff guys, mentions of some other ow characters, quite a bit of fighting, really really intense angst, self-hate, sorry - Freeform, wow genji really hates himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abaze/pseuds/abaze
Summary: Genji didn't ask to be pieced back together after his brother ripped him apart. Set immediately after Genji's 'death'.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this whole story takes place (more or less) at Watchpoint Gibraltar, immediately after Genji is found by Overwatch after being mauled by his big bro.  
> please read the tags before reading, because theres a lot of nasty stuff in this fic!
> 
> it's also cross-posted on ff.net, with the same title.

Genji doesn't wake up so much as forcefully drag his dazed mind to consciousness. It rushes into him all at once, needing to go, needing to run— He feels cold steel, smooth against rough skin. It's wrong. _There's something wrong. Why is it so quiet?_

A sharp stab tears through his mind and his tenuous train of thought is ripped to shreds, a bed sheet stretched thin before a barreling train. He flinches, pulling his body closer and opening his mouth to scream, yell. ( _Where's my brother?_ ) What is that sound? A pitched, mechanical buzz rises like a soaring plane while Genji squirms in pain, and culminates in a shriek—

"Fuck- He's coming up-"

"He shouldn't be awake yet!"

The buzz in his ears wobbles and resolves into voices, tinny and crackling with static. Genji tries to pinpoint where they are, pulling his head away from the— pillow? bed?— before his neck starts hurting, too, from the strain. He can't see. _Why can't I see anything?_ His mind throbs quietly, and Genji bites back a groan. _Something's wrong_ , a voice whispers, and it reminds Genji of the council elders' thin tones—

A flash of silver. _Brother?_ There's roaring and it's loud loud loud-

* * *

Genji listens quietly to Dr. Ziegler's voice, clutching desperately to her melodic tone. ( _Hanzo should be here. Where is he?_ ) She speaks softly but firmly, as if she's had a lot of practice delivering bad news to nervous patients. He sits, still in his bed (too weak to sit up yet), as the doctor tells him how he was found, bleeding and barely alive— _his body broken and shredded, a fine red mist in the air_ — and how Overwatch agents had found him in the field— _bloodied agents yelling, trying to ignore Genji's pained sobs as they lifted him_ — and transported him to the Watchpoint.

Dr. Ziegler explains how she, with her recent prize-winning research, brought him back from the brink of death (at the expense of his own humanity). She runs her hands, rough and steady with the experience of a battlefield medic, across Genji's arms, pointing out synthetic muscle and artificial sensors. Genji listens in silence. He's not sure what he would say.

"There is much more to know about your armor and cybernetic enhancements, of course, but I don't want to wear you out so soon after waking from such a big operation. How are you feeling right now?" Dr. Ziegler asks. Genji can't tell if the question is out of medical necessity or genuine concern. Among the churning of his mind, he thinks absently that Ziegler is a good actor.

"I don't know." Genji, however, is not. He flinches at the sound of his voice, harsh and raspy. The doctor had promised to install a prosthetic sound box later, after Genji had recovered more.

"Hm," Dr. Ziegler tuts, her body unmoving as she examines Genji's expression, "Well, there's no need to worry right now. You'll be fine in a week or two."

Genji wonders idly if he wants to be fine, thinking of what got him here in the first place. His memories are still blurry— swirling and dipping in and out of focus— but he doesn't think that anything that could've left him in the state Dr. Ziegler described could be "fine". All he can see are snippets of dark grass and Hanzo's face, lit by fire and and blue light. Dread pools in his stomach (or whatever's left of it).

Dr. Ziegler stands to leave, but Genji speaks out, asking where his brother is. She wears a look of polite confusion as she turns to face him.

"Your brother, Hanzo Shimada?"

Genji nods.

"He is likely still in Japan. We have elected to not contact him concerning your condition until you decide to do so yourself."

Genji makes a sound of acknowledgement, still not quite satisfied. There's something important about his brother that he is forgetting. His thoughts come, unbeckoned, whispering conspiratorially.

Dr. Ziegler is a good actor.

* * *

It is in the death of sleep that Genji remembers.

Hanzo twirls in the light of the moon, as graceful and prodigious with the sword as he's always been. It matters not if he's cutting into straw, wood, or flesh. Genji has never poured that many hours into his technique or his footwork, and a quiet voice at the back of his mind berates him now for that (the voice sounds suspiciously like the council elders).

"Brother, stop! What are you doing?" Genji exclaims as he scrambles to block Hanzo's strikes.

Hanzo does not stop. His weapon arcs, steel flashing, towards Genji's delicate neck. The latter is only barely able to deflect the falling sword, using the momentum to push away from Hanzo clumsily. Hanzo darts after him, oddly steady in his steps as he lands heavy, solid blows.

"Please, brother," Genji's pleas fall on unhearing ears.

Deep inside, Genji knows why. It is his own fault. He has brought this upon himself, and now he will pay the price for it. He falters in his steps and feels pain blossom in his shoulder. _The elders warned you_ , he thinks to himself. He can't fight through the pain and the numbing shock of seeing his brother—

Genji turns on his heel and sprints desperately towards the estate exit. He stumbles across the courtyard, breath ragged and short, barely sidestepping Hanzo's blows. He makes it all the way to the main gates before he looks back just once to see his brother's face stiffen with resolve, and two massive maws twisting towards Genji, painting his horrified face blue with light.

" _The dragon devours my enemy!_ "

The moon shines cruelly above them.

* * *

Dr. Ziegler is checking up on Genji's vitals when he shoots awake with a heavy gasp. There's a cold terror on his face— a nightmare. His eyes focus on something unseen, and he slumps back into his pillow, face relaxing but body curling in on itself. Dr. Ziegler can see his anxiety in the lines of his mouth, the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides.

The doctor clears her throat to make herself known. Genji jumps, whipping his head around to look at her seated at his bedside. His eyes shine with unshed tears, and Dr. Ziegler feels her heart twist.

Before she can say anything, Genji starts, "My brother. He killed me." His voice jumps, almost as if he's asking a question.

Dr. Ziegler says nothing. It's an answer enough.

Genji makes a muffled sound, hands going up to his scarred mouth. He suddenly feels nauseated, sick to his stomach as he remembers the blood- wet and sticky and _oh god_ \- pooling around his limp form, limbs practically severed and guts torn apart. He remembers pleading quietly for help, bleeding out and gasping for breath in his own front yard. The dragons were not clean eaters. ( _Though_ , he thinks dryly, _if they had been I would be dead_.)

There is no sound in the medical wing as Genji sobs silently to himself, trying to push down the bile in the back of his throat. _(Why? Why would you do this to me? I loved you. You loved me._ ) His body curls in completely in itself now, and he tries to ignore the sharp edges of his cybernetic enhancements, only another reminder of what his brother has done.

A hand is placed on Genji's shoulder, pulling him slowly into Dr. Ziegler's embrace. His arms instinctively curl around the edges of her coat ( _Remember when you used to hold me after my nightmares?_ ), his shoulders shaking uncontrollably as the doctor places her chin on his head. It's such a motherly motion, so fundamentally maternal, that Genji almost smiles.

Leaning against Dr. Ziegler, her arms around him, is how he falls asleep that night. His dreams are empty.

* * *

Genji doesn't feel better the next morning. Dr. Ziegler had left in the middle of the night, and Genji doesn't blame her (he assures himself that she has other patients and duties), but the feeling of her coat against his cheek feels all the more bitter now that it's gone.

He would feel embarrassed about sobbing pathetically into his doctor's arms if he were still young and in one piece. But with his fingers digging into the synthetic muscles of his shoulders and the edges of his brother's betrayal still fresh in his mind, Genji honestly couldn't be bothered. ( _Hanzo's betrayal? You mean mine. I betrayed him, I betrayed father and the council and Mother-_ )

Genji's heart constricts and his breath catches as he feels the dragons tearing into his skin—

"Genji?"

It's not the doctor. This voice is lighter, less grounded. Genji's vision quivers with tears before solidifying into a tall figure, with messy hair and a bright freckled face. He squints, arms relaxing from where they protectively wrapped around his torso. "Are you... Tracer?" Even sheltered and as aloof as Genji is, he still knows the face of the world's most famous Overwatch agent.

"That's me, love. And you're our live-in patient!"

Genji frowns. "Does everyone here know about me?" (He had known, at least vaguely, that he was being held at an important Overwatch base. Just how important it was, he had not realized until now.)

"Most of the agents do, sorry. News travels fast." Tracer looks apologetic for a moment, but the expression melts quickly. Her default face seems to be one of excitement. "They're all dying to meet you; we've been waiting for Angela's all-clear."

Genji squirms, uncomfortable in the idea that a whole facility of talented agents might be gossiping about him. He's always been a bit of a drama queen, but now the feeling of eyes on his skin sits wrong with him. He pushes away his discomfort and smiles and answers Tracer's mundane inquiries with as much energy as he can muster. Tracer's smart though, and she notices his mood slipping soon enough. With a cheery farewell and 'feel better', she shows herself out.

Genji releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding until Tracer left. He almost feels better left with the haunting memories of his own death than having to make small talk with the agent. There's irony somewhere in that statement, but Genji's too exhausted to find it.

His eyes feel heavy and he prepares to sleep, shifting his pillows to lay more comfortably. But the moment his eyes close, he sees the flashing of a sword, the cold resolve in Hanzo's eyes—

Genji gives up on sleep and stares blankly at the wall of his room, trying to ignore the gnawing in his stomach and the prickle of his skin, artificial sensors feeling not-quite-right against the stiff infirmary bed sheets. Thoughts of Hanzo threaten to flood his mind. His heart beats a little faster than what is comfortable, and he realizes vacantly that he wants to die. Even if just so he can feel his own skin again.

* * *

Throughout the course of the next week, Genji is visited by more agents. Tracer comes back every other day at the exact same hour, like clockwork, exchanging idle chatter with Genji. He finds that he enjoys her conversations more over time, her trivial questions occupying his overworked mind.

The second agent he meets is Winston, and even with previous knowledge of the individual's unique appearance, he's a bit astounded when faced with Winston's towering form. According to the gorilla-turned-scientist, Genji is welcome to remain at the Watchpoint for as long as he wishes, even after his discharge from the medical quarters. Genji accepts Overwatch's hospitality with as much gratitude as he can muster. Which, to be frank, is not much. Winston is not nearly as fluent with words as Tracer, and their conversation is halting and awkward. Genji tries to appreciate it, but he practically flat-out requests Winston to leave after a few minutes, feeling self-disgust settling into his scars.

Later in the week, Agents Reinhardt and Lacroix exchange names and pleasantries briefly with him before departing on a week-long operation. Genji thought they seemed like nice individuals, though he could see in the squareness of Reinhardt's shoulders and the way Lacroix's hand never left his hip that they were front line agents, through and through. His thoughts strayed to Hanzo, who received his own bow at age twelve and never put it down. Who kept a shortsword under his pillow, by their father's request and, eventually, Hanzo's own habit.

Rehabilitation is tough. Not only because Genji still doesn't know the way around his own mind— the squeak of the medical wing's chairs remind him of a dragon's too loud roar— but also because the novelty of Genji's cyborg prostheses. Each part of his new synthetic body is designed with care and a master's eye, but it still doesn't compare to the real thing. Genji spends days and weeks with training exercises that Dr. Ziegler seemed to making up on the spot. He doesn't mind the busywork though, appreciating the doctor's understanding of his delicate mental state. It's nice to have something distracting his mind from dwelling on... anything, so Genji throws himself headfirst into physical therapy and relearning basic movement.

It's weeks before Genji is able to stand and walk on his own. He's not keeping track of time very well, but from occasional glances at Dr. Ziegler's tablet Genji surmises that it's been at least a month or two since he woke up, sobbing and shivering on the operation table. He still hasn't been able to leave his in-patient room. The white walls and scratchy sheets have been grinding on Genji's thoughts, and he begins to spend hours staring out the one window of his room, which faces a set of rock bluffs. When he finally manages a few steps on his own, Genji feels something in his chest release, a knot melting off his troubled heart. The doctor smiles and promises Genji that he will be allowed to leave the medical wing by the end of the week.

More agents have been visiting him as well, some just to catch a glimpse of the boy brought back from death, others to inquire about his past life (questions which Genji either shakily deflects or soundly ignores). Mostly he pretends to sleep when people arrive, too exhausted from rehab and nightmares to make small talk. He doesn't receive any gifts; Genji finds this reassuring, that none of the Overwatch agents have invested too much time or thought onto him. He feels transient and out of place, a trespasser in a high-profile military base. The one exception to this is Tracer, who begins to bring him junk food squirreled from the agents' communal pantry, much to Dr. Ziegler's chagrin.

Sometimes, during bouts of startling lucidity, Genji blinks past the events of the last few months and remembers, pleasantly, the days before his slaughter. When everything was still normal, still okay. Practicing his aim in the garden. The soft breaths of his latest romantic interest against his neck, their legs tangled in his. Quiet afternoons in the courtyard ( _soon to be splattered with his blood_ ) admiring the sunset. Feeding birds with his brother when Genji was barely ten, making chirrup noises and laughing—

Genji chokes back a laugh. _When did it go wrong?_ _We were so innocent, brother._ His breath catches and before he knows it, tears are rolling down his cheeks and he curls up the best he can on the hard infirmary mattress.

* * *

It's dark. Blindlingly so.

Genji is standing on stage, lights shining dazzlingly upon him as he squints into the audience. It's no use, the stage is too bright and the gallery too dark. His lips pull into something that could be described as a smile, his body turning to face his brother.

Hanzo's eyes are cold; his face much older than it had been when Genji had last seen him. His eyes are shrouded in a quiet shadow, wisps of facial hair framing his chin. He is not smiling.

Without warning, Hanzo's mouth opens, and keeps opening. It grows into an expansive maw and Genji watches on in horror and detached concern as fire erupts, swirling into hundreds of dragons, each with a set of razor-sharp teeth and slitted eyes. Genji wants to scream, but he finds that he is utterly apathetic, body and mind weighed down as if carrying mountains. He observes passively as the dragons tumble and twirl, reaching towards him with claws that gleam silver and green-

Genji wakes with a gasp, cold sweat beading his face. His room is empty and silent.

He pulls himself into a sitting position and leans his forehead against the bars of his bed frame, relishing in the cold press of metal on what remains of his skin. It is night, the window dark and shades partially drawn. He kicks the blanket onto the floor—technically, Genji doesn't need any covering at night, since his systems had built-in heating cores— and feels disgust rise in his throat. He's flooded with a sudden wave of self-hatred, the sudden need to leave.

He was a burden. _A bird_. Didn't need to be held down. He knocks his arm against the bedside table as he stands, the clang of metal on metal startling him. _Not truly human_. He needed to get out, to move. To stretch his muscles and feel the wind on his skin—

Genji almost slips when he clambers out the window and descends the outside wall of the medical wing, dropping messily onto the ground. His reflexes aren't calibrated yet, aren't ( _will never be_ ) at the level they were before the accident. The night is refreshing and horrifying to Genji's artificial senses. He is motionless on the grass lawn, feeling an overwhelming sensation of loss. _The grass. I can't feel the grass under my feet._

There are crickets crying in the underbrush, and Genji tries to focus on walking and not the pain of unused, untrained ( _unfeeling_ ) muscles tearing from his steps, which are too big and too fast. He makes his way to the cliff face, which he has watched distantly from his room for weeks. The rocks are much rougher up close; Genji cuts nicks into his synthetic flesh on the rugged terrain when he picks his way up the cliff.

Genji almost falls more than a few times on his way up. He's unsurprised to find that he is fine with that. His latent suicidal notions have become quite habitual during his stay in the medical wing, a steady base beat to his own meltdown.

From the top of the cliff, he can see out towards the sea, shaky rock bluffs plummeting into the blackness of the shore. The Watchpoint sprawls across the valley behind him, tucked between mountains that carve out the ocean.

Genji crumples to the ground, suddenly exhausted. There's soreness sitting behind his eyes but he can't close them, has to keep looking. The salty wind burns his throat and his nose. Surrounded by the distant rush of waves crashing, Genji curls in on himself, vaguely noticing the tears on his face. He grits his teeth, revulsion of his own body ( _no it's not_ ) prickling on his skin. Resolve settling into his bones. ( _Just like your older brother._ )

Dr. Ziegler had not bothered to replicate nails on Genji's fingers, leaving them round, blunt, and altogether very inefficient at disassembling things. He digs his fingers into his arms, prying at his shoulder panels. There's a spark and a satisfying sting as they finally come loose, landing silently in the sparse vegetation of the cliff side. The collar-pieces to his cyborg enhancements are much more difficult to remove.

Though he feels absolutely hysterical inside, Genji's movements are oddly steady. He almost laughs with relief when the majority of his upper chest is dismantled and he can see the sparking wires below, a soft green light (no longer blocked by strategic metal coverings) spilling onto the ground.

 _You're disgusting_ , he thinks to himself, reaching into his chest and ripping out a handful of wires.

As Genji blacks out ( _Why does it hurt so much?_ ), he thinks he can hear his brother yelling.

_Oh Hanzo, what have I become?_

* * *

Genji is not dead.

This is the first thing he realizes when his conciousness stirs. The second thing he notices is the pain, a familiar prickle. Fresh and burning, it's almost a relief to his frayed senses.

Genji wants to bring himself to dissapointment or anger that he is still alive, but he finds nothing. There's only a quiet apathy sitting between his ears, pressing reassuringly at the back of his mind. He isn't sure how he feels about this, other than the fact that he doesn't.

When he opens his eyes, he is again in an infirmary room. It's not his old room; though the sterilized smell and distasteful green curtains are familiar, there's a slightly different way that the room is angled, and the window faces a cold wall this time. Dr. Ziegler sits expectantly in a hard-backed chair only feet away from Genji's face. He's unnerved by her presence, feeling as if the doctor had been waiting for him, knowing exactly when he would be waking up (which, with her technology, was entirely possible).

When Dr. Ziegler notices Genji staring blankly at her, her face settles into one of detached concern. She gives him a reassuring smile; Genji says nothing.

"So, Genji. How are you feeling?"

He's surprised that her first words are not along the lines of, "What were you thinking?" or "Why did you do it?", because he wasn't sure he would know how to answer. She'd taken on such an oddly mother-like archetype in Genji's mind, he'd almost forgotten the bitter indomitability of her pose, how she spoke with a planned grace.

There's a pause, and Genji clutches to his apathy like a lifeline. It's comfortably cold, conveniently removed. When he was younger, or even just a few months ago, he might have lied to the doctor, assured her that it was All Okay. Needless to say, he just doesn't care anymore. "I feel terrible."

Dr. Ziegler nods along, as if she was expecting this response. "It is understandable. You are going through difficult times. If you have anything you need to talk about, we are here. It's all going to be better. You are going to be okay."

Genji bites his lip, doesn't ask, " _But what if I don't want to?_ "

* * *

Rehabilitation is easier the second time around, if not immeasurably more frustrating. Genji's tired of the blank walls and the vague scent of disinfectant and he wants to get out. ( _I can't do this again. Please, don't leave me alone with myself._ )

Dr. Ziegler slips him a reading tablet to help pass the time, but he can't bring himself to be interested in it. When he was younger (and still in one piece), Genji might have invested in some ostentatious romance novels to spite his brother. But he's not with his brother anymore, and— _Haven't I pissed you off enough? I've driven you to fratricide, a new low for both of us._ Instead, Genji spends the mornings sleeping, the afternoons preoccupying himself with physical therapy, and the nights awake, heart beating a little too fast until his exhaustion puts him to sleep at dawn.

Whether by the doctor's notice or because they'd heard about Genji's trip up the cliff-side, none of the agents visit him anymore. The only glimpse he'd had of anyone besides Dr. Ziegler and the assistant nurses was Tracer, as she was wheeled past his open door in a hospital-style gurney. From the quick look he'd had at her, Genji couldn't see any visible injuries (excepting bruises and red dust), but she hadn't been moving. He wondered idly if she would be okay.

Days after Genji has regained control of his body, Dr. Ziegler walks into his room with a long stride. She is silent as she puts her tablet down, almost fidgeting with her coat as she approaches Genji.

"Guete morge, Genji."

Genji looks her in the eye. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

The way the doctor stills is answer enough. "I have good news, actually," she starts after a pause. "You will be officially released from the medical wing in about an hour. Winston has arranged for one of the west wing residential rooms to be available for you to use."

There's a beat of silence as Genji takes this in, reveling in the news of his freedom while at the same time, knowing with dread that there would be bad news to follow.

"But there's more to it," Genji offers wearily when Dr. Ziegler doesn't continue. Some kind of catch. No way Overwatch would give him a free body and let him go like that- years of growing up at the heart of an illegal arms trade business had taught him that much, at least.

She sighs. "Yes, there is." She shifts in her chair. "As you know, Overwatch has only provided me the funding and opportunity to heal and augment your body because you are an asset. You have a strong background in combat and extensive knowledge of the Shimada group's operations." Here she sits straighter, looking directly at Genji. "Blackwatch wants to recruit you to help dismantle the Shimada group completely; there's a offensive mission scheduled to depart for Japan in two days. Are you willing to go?"

Genji slumps back into his pillow. In a way, he'd seen this coming, had known it from the first day he woke up in a high-tech military facility. (But a small part of him still begs, _no, I don't want to go back, please_ —) He doesn't want to say yes. But he's defeated now, and a slow burning in his bones reminds him of the council's disgusted faces and he feels anger rise in his throat. It's so raw, after weeks of apathy, that Genji almost doesn't recognize it at first. It's fury. Fury at his brother for killing him, at the elders for forcing his brother to kill him, at his father for dying, at _himself_ —

He avoids Dr. Ziegler's eyes. "I will join them."

* * *

He spends the two days before the mission briefing and re-briefing with the Blackwatch squad that has been assigned to this mission. As far as he can tell (and as far as he cares, honestly), Blackwatch acts as an undercover operation within Overwatch, executing rather illegal missions under Overwatch's ruse of heroic justice. Genji might've been bothered by this ideology in his youth, but now he could care less. The dull apathy of the past weeks has been suddenly replaced by a slow, burning rage, which feels almost worse.

Genji sits at the very back of the transport plane when they finally depart. He still feels alienated, not at ease with the other agents or himself. As far as he knows, he can make a break for it after he exacts his revenge on the council and thus, has no need to associate with Blackwatch members. He had only been introduced to the squad he was working with once before a short training session, and had forgotten most of their names. He did remember Commander Reyes, however, surprised that he would be working with such a high-profile Overwatch agent right from the start.

The ride to Japan is shaky and unbearably long, exacerbated by the idle jingling from one of the agent's boots. ( _Cowboy boots? He looks like a cowboy. How stupid._ )

They land on the outskirts of Hanamura and the mission begins without a hitch, Genji being assigned with the cowboy agent to a flanking group. Reyes reminds them of their objective— to sabotage a Shimada-controlled warehouse stronghold and take out as many operatives as possible. Moving out in groups, Genji tries to ignore the pained thudding of his heart as he takes in the port side warehouse, familiarity grinding at his chest. The cowboy gives Genji an odd look, but doesn't say anything, and Genji is thankful. At least this agent's manners aren't as distasteful as his attire.

Genji and his partner move around the back edge of the stronghold, stopping to ambush lone guards and rifling through their pockets for security keys and ammo packs. The cowboy seems quite invested in corpse-looting, fishing a pack of cigarettes from a dead sniper's jacket with a happy caw and tucking it into his belt.

"Reyes always takes mine," he says to Genji as an explanation, thought it really isn't one.

Genji tries not to look too closely at the operatives they execute (with surprising efficiency), afraid that it'll be someone he recognizes. He already made that mistake with the sniper, peeking under her hood to see the face of a girl who once challenged him to an arcade match at a Shimada clan meeting, whose parents were high-ranking Shimada members. Surprisingly, he doesn't feel nauseated. Or much of anything at all, besides the renewed anger at seeing another lose their life to the Shimada clan. (He refuses the examine the logic behind that statement too closely.) Though, the aching indifference he feels is much more horrifying than any grief he's ever experienced.

Genji and his partner round the final corner before the back entrance of the warehouse, where they were supposed to break in. The air is punctuated by occasional gunfire, as Reyes and the rest of the squad engage at the main entrance. The heavy door is unguarded— or rather, was previously guarded, before the cowboy agent had taken out the stationed guards with two excellent shots. Genji steps gingerly over their bodies, trying to avoid staining his armor, waving away encroaching memories of blood and hellfire—

There's a click as the door unlocks to the cowboy's stolen key card, and the agent peeks through the crack in the door, gesturing to Genji that there are three Shimada operatives in view. Genji mouths 'You first' to the agent, before remembering that the cowboy can't see his mouth due to his visor. Genji waves his hand instead, pointing at the cowboy and then the door. Frustration bubbles in his chest as the agent cocks his head, clearly confused.

Before either of them can move, there's a crash from inside the warehouse, followed by the sharp sound of something cutting through air. Genji feels his whole body freeze. He recognizes that sound— too slow to be a bullet, too fast to be a knife. The thunk as it sinks into wood or flesh ( _it all sounds the same_ ). Only one sane person in the whole of Japan uses a bow in combat. He feels his heart plummet, his breathing pick up.

Vaguely, he hears the buzz of his communicator, Reyes announcing to the squad that they've breached the front entrance of the warehouse, that Genji and Mccree ( _Is that the cowboy?_ ) better be ready to back them up from the opposite side. He feels light as the cowboy agent- _Mccree?_ \- shakes his shoulder, then turns to pull open the door.

Genji stumbles into the warehouse behind Mccree, scared and angry all at once. There's still a ringing in his ears, he hears the thump of arrow against wood, _sword against flesh_ , and he's watching belatedly as Mccree whirls his revolver, taking down one, two Shimada operatives. The third guard rushes at Mccree from the back and Genji recognizes his face, the lines of his lashes— he's the son of a council elder, and suddenly Genji is moving.

His sword slides smoothly out of its sheath, and Genji summons his dragons under his breath, words barely leaving his mouth before he feels a familiar heat scorching his arms. (Idly, he's glad that he can still summon the dragons, after all he's done.) He dashes forwards, and the guard is dead, the line of a sword leaving mauled flesh in its path as it rips his spine in half. There's shotguns popping in the echoing span of the warehouse and Genji doesn't even acknowledge Mccree's shocked expression before turning on his heel and ripping into another Shimada guard who had been retreating from the front line firefight at the entrance. He loses track of himself and Mccree as he angrily tears through the rear of the Shimada operatives' force, cutting down enemies one by one. ( _Brother, Stop! What are you doing?_ ) There's screaming and blood everywhere—

And suddenly blazing pain erupts in Genji's hip. He looks down with wide eyes to see a thin object impaled in his thigh muscles, burrowing into synthetic flesh. His vision is blurring, mind going haywire, it's him, _it's him, killed by my own brother again_ —

* * *

When Genji next comes to lucidity he's laying on the warehouse floor, which is cold and aching against his back. He hears voices, but no gunshots or yelling. Sitting up is impossible, he finds, as he tries and immediately lets out a groan as his leg wound is stretched by the movement.

There's hard footsteps and suddenly Mccree is above him, crouching next to Genji's prone body and squinting at his face. Genji notes lines of blood on Mccree's outfit, and realizes darkly that Mccree would never come in contact with blood in normal combat with a revolver. It's from Genji, from his mindless usage of his dragon-

"Hey, buddy, you went pretty berserk there, y'know."

Genji peers up at Mccree's face as Reyes moves into view. The commander puts his hand on Genji's back to help him stand up, saying, "You've been out for about ten minutes. We can't really patch up your leg without Angela; Amari has done all she can for you. The rest of the squad's waiting near the plane for take off. You think you can walk?"

Genji manages a nod, leaning heavily against the commander's shoulder as they (and Mccree) pick their way across the bloodied warehouse floor. Genji tries his best not to look at the bodies, but there are just _so many_ and the stench is overpowering. Instead he focuses on himself, noticing with dull surprise that the object impaled into his thigh was not an arrow but, in fact, a knife. _Was Hanzo not there at all?_

He pushes down his nausea until they arrive at the plane, where the sting of his wound combined with the fatigue from wielding his dragon so recklessly flood him and he can barely take his visor off in time to retch onto the pavement. Reyes watches disinterestedly before helping Genji up onto the plane.

Genji's dazed now, and there's a horrible taste in his mouth, but his stomach has stopped convulsing and he thinks he can survive the plane trip back to Watchpoint. Mccree sits next to him this time, and rubs his back as the plane takes off. Genji's leans into the agent's firm hands, weary and drained from the... from everything.

"Boy, you sure scared me back there. Some crazy shit you did with that sword." Mccree speaks in a whisper, which Genji can appreciate. "You sure you're okay?"

Something soft settles into Genji's bones, and he feels latent rage melt away into exhaustion. "I will be," he says.

(And when he makes his way back to Overwatch years later, with Zenyatta in tow, climbing up the cliff side to admire the shore, he thinks, I am okay now. _Everything is fine._ )

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, yall! i had a lot of fun writing this. even though it was hell & also very emotional i guess.


End file.
